


Meeting Sherlock

by ClaireBHypno



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Medical, Medical Examination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3182258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireBHypno/pseuds/ClaireBHypno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a GP in a London doctor's surgery.  Sherlock Holmes works with the Met Police, and needs to have a medical to continue working with them.  John ends up giving him a very thorough examination...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to darlingben for encouraging me to post this, please be kind, it's my first fic! Comments and concrit welcome :0)

Dr John Watson entered the security code into the door’s keypad, and entered the surgery’s office. “Morning!” Liz, one of the receptionists, greeted him cheerfully. “Nice quiet morning for you, if it stays like this,” she continued, handing him a list of the morning’s patients. John strode confidently down the corridor to his office, pausing only to collect a cup of tea on the way. Once there, he settled the list onto his desk, squaring it with the edges of the desk, and tucked his bag in its usual place out of the way in the corner of the room; his military neatness was a hard habit to break. He quickly flicked through the names on his list for the day, the receptionist was right; it would be a very quiet morning. John often found it difficult to reconcile his conflicting feelings; he appreciated being able to go to work with only a minimal chance of being shot while he was there, but some days he thought he might die from the boredom instead.

John sighed, glanced at the clock on his desk, and buzzed his first patient of the day in. The morning was the usual round of malingerers, coughs, small children with rashes, with only one interesting case to bring a marginal amount of relief, a young man with some interesting symptoms and a history of foreign travel necessitating a consultation with the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. John was an efficient worker, and had seen all of the patients on his list 30 minutes before surgery was due to finish, so as he usually did, wandered out to the office to see if there were any emergency patients he could see to lighten his colleagues’ load.

“But this is important! You must have someone halfway competent that can see me and sign a piece of paper!” John could hear the voice almost as soon as he stepped out of his office, deep, rich and extremely impatient. “I’m sorry Mr Holmes, you’ll need to book an appointment, like the rest of our patients have ALREADY DONE!” Liz had been a receptionist at the surgery for 15 years, and the battle was likely to be an interesting one. John made his way past the two junior receptionists, cowering out of sight in the back of the office; they smiled sheepishly but made no move to go to Liz’s assistance. “It’s Mr Holmes,” said Tracey, as though that explained everything. “He has to have a medical for the Met, and he thinks we’re all just sitting here doing nothing!”

“Any idiot can diagnose them,” the rich voice sneered. “Take the blonde in the corner. Her problem is obviously centred on her groin, judging by the way she’s leaning in her seat with nobody next to her to talk to, she’s clearly too uncomfortable to sit normally, and the fidgeting tells its own tale. Could be haemorrhoids, but the constant fiddling with her engagement ring and pained expression says STD, and not caught from her fiancé.” John rounded the corner just in time to see a young blonde woman with a scarlet face rushing from the waiting room, mumbling something about coming back another time. “As for him,” the voice continued, “from the way they were making a point of not looking at each other, he’s obviously the source of the problem.” A young man with a face a similar shade of scarlet hurried out of the waiting room, glaring at the owner of the voice. It proved to belong to a tall, fairly young man, with dark curly hair, a boyish figure, and a pale complexion. He was dressed in a suit, although without a tie – a wise precaution, John decided, as it would reduce the likelihood of anyone strangling him with it – and a rather ostentatious coat, open at the front, with a blue scarf encircling his neck. Before the man had the opportunity to begin diagnosing the elderly gentleman who was also waiting to be seen, John stepped up to the desk and asked, “Is there a problem?”

“This… “gentleman”… (John could almost hear the quotation marks falling into place) needs to have a medical for his work, Dr Watson, and I’m just explaining to him that he needs to book an appointment,” replied Liz through gritted teeth. “Are there any more patients waiting to be seen?” John enquired. “Not any more,” Liz muttered. “I have some time free, why don’t I see… Mr Holmes, was it? Make life easier for everyone,” John smiled. “Well if you’re sure, Doctor?” Liz turned back to the tall man who clearly felt he had won this round. “If you’d like to follow the Doctor…” she said, hanging on to civility by the tiniest thread.

Liz placed a fresh cup of tea on John’s desk, along with the medical form, and left, closing the door behind her. Sherlock Holmes, was the name on the front, with a date of birth that put him in his mid thirties and an address in Baker Street. “First things first, I need you to produce a urine sample.” John handed the man a specimen pot, and continued, “You’ll find a toilet two doors down on the right.”

While Mr Holmes was gone, John took the opportunity to glance through his records. No minor illnesses here, but there were more than the average number of broken bones, cuts and abrasions needing stitches at A&E, and a lengthy correspondence from an exclusive rehab centre that John was well aware he wouldn’t be able to afford for himself, should the need ever arise. John wondered what kind of job it was that needed a medical and resulted in those kinds of injuries, something to do with the previous addiction, maybe? He was beginning to regret sending Mr Holmes off by himself to produce the urine sample, and wondered whether a blood sample would be an appropriate move. Just then, the door opened and Mr Holmes entered the room, setting the specimen pot on the desk next to the medical form.

“I don’t know why you’re going to all this trouble, there is nothing wrong with me, just sign the form so I can leave,” he said without any preamble. John was rather taken aback by this, and didn’t mind showing it. “Mr Holmes, where did you get your medical degree?” he enquired. “I don’t have a medical degree, and it’s Sherlock, Mr Holmes is my brother,” Sherlock scoffed. “Then if it’s all the same to you, Sherlock, I’ll use MY medical degree to continue your medical examination. Could you remove your coat, scarf, jacket and shoes, please? And just pop on the scales when you have, I need to record your height and weight.”

As Sherlock began to remove his clothing, John was struck by just how thin he was, and his BMI confirmed he was underweight. Testing of the urine sample didn’t reveal anything of concern, a few more simple questions saw half of the form completed, and then it was time for the physical examination to begin. “Take a seat on the couch there, Sherlock, if you would.” As the taller man settled himself on the couch, John turned away to grab a pair of latex gloves, turning in surprise at the sound of Sherlock’s breathing suddenly becoming rapid and shallow; he hadn’t expected the seemingly confident man to be one of the many people with a fear of doctors. John made a mental note to be slow and gentle, to explain everything he was doing before he did it. Still, he mused, fear certainly explained the aggressive behaviour in the waiting room; he was surprised none of the other doctors in the practice had made a note of it in Sherlock’s records.

John snapped the gloves on, trying and failing to be unobtrusive about it, proof being the sharp hiss of indrawn breath coming from Sherlock. “I’m just going to take your blood pressure, I’ll need you to slip your shirt off so I can put this cuff around your bicep, if that’s okay?” he said, moving quietly and confidently. Sherlock unbuttoned the shirt, revealing his pale skin beneath. John wondered whether that blood test was still a good idea, but to check for anaemia instead of drugs; surely nobody had such perfect alabaster skin in these days of tanning beds and fake bake? Sherlock’s breathing was still rapid, but otherwise he seemed relatively calm, sitting with eyes shut and allowing John to manipulate his arm to get the cuff on. The cuff was quickly inflated and the pressure taken with no further problems. John moved through the rest of the examination quietly, explaining at every stage what he was doing and why. He began to notice that each time he touched Sherlock’s bare skin with his gloved hands, Sherlock reacted. “Sherlock,” he began, “are you okay with the medical procedures I’m doing? I’ve noticed you seem a little… anxious… when I touch you?” Sherlock seemed to take a moment to compose himself, then answered “I’m fine, Doctor, please… Carry on.”

John moved directly in front of Sherlock to check the glands in his neck for swelling, as a first indication of infection, and was surprised when Sherlock opened his legs wide, creating a space for John to step into. Most patients either scrunched themselves awkwardly over their laps in a combination of making it easier for John to reach and protecting their genitals, so John was even more surprised to see Sherlock lean back slightly, forcing John to stand as close as he could in order to reach. Being so close to this strangely handsome man was stirring some odd feelings in John; back in Afghanistan he had been close with his army colleagues, all boys together and all that, modesty didn’t last long when you lived all day every day with an entire unit, but back here in London he didn’t have any particularly close male friends, and to be honest, he kind of missed the closeness. He’d taken a couple of female friends out on dates, but was the perfect gentleman, even if they gave indications that they’d quite like him not to be. John forced himself to be professional; this Sherlock Holmes was a patient, after all, and heaven only knew what sort of trouble he could get into if he wasn’t careful. As he stepped back, John noticed the erection growing beneath the fabric of those suit trousers, and began to have his suspicions about what was actually happening here.

“Mr Ho- Sherlock, I need to test your reflexes, it’ll be easier to do that if you slip your trousers off.” As Sherlock stood to remove them, John turned to pick up the small reflex hammer, allowing his patient (he kept reminding himself) some privacy, and giving himself enough breathing space that he would resist asking if Sherlock needed any help, and by the way, the medical form required a thorough examination of his penis too, could John assist with those tight fitting black trunks? “Where do you want me?” that chocolate voice cut through his daydream, and John turned back to Sherlock, clearing his throat. “Just where you were before is fine,” he said, heading back over to the couch. “Now if you could just cross one leg over the other, please?” Sherlock crossed his legs, ankle to knee, with a small smile on his face. He leaned back on his hands; the effect was as though he had framed his erection with his body for John’s viewing pleasure. Well two could play at that game, John thought, if his suspicions were correct. He took a firm grip on Sherlock’s leg with his latex gloved hand, and slowly slid it along Sherlock’s knee until the other man was arranged to his satisfaction, saying “No, I mean like this.” As he touched Sherlock’s bare skin, he made sure to look him straight in the eyes, and was rewarded with that same sharp hiss of indrawn breath from before. “I was right,” John thought to himself, “It’s the latex, he’s got a thing about the latex!” John conducted the reflex test, taking hold of Sherlock’s legs in his gloved hands to swap over and test the other side. He carefully made some more notes on the medical form, and realised that he had now completed every question, each examination they had asked for had been done.

“Well Sherlock,” he said, “We’ve finished the medical, but I wonder if we shouldn’t just do a couple of extra tests while I have you here, to save you needing to come back another time?”

“What did you have in mind, Doctor?” Sherlock asked, in a voice that was almost dripping sex.

“Well I think we should consider a prostate check,” John replied hurriedly, “Obviously if there are any issues, the sooner we catch them the better. And I’d like to check for hernias too, you seem to have quite a physical job, judging by what the Met wanted me to check!” John knew this would be the deciding point, Sherlock was obviously not a stupid man, he had diagnosed the two patients in the waiting room without the benefit of any medical training, and correctly too, if John’s experience was anything to go by. Even ordinary everyday patients these days seemed to know that men should start having a prostate exam at about age 50, and Sherlock was not even close. If he objected now, John could claim to have misread his age, make a joke about thinking he looked young for his age, and that would be the end of it. If, however, as he suspected he would, Sherlock agreed the medical exam was necessary…

John held his breath while Sherlock appeared to think this over. “Well if you think that’s best, Doctor”, he said, that velvety voice seeming to deepen and the icy blue eyes becoming heavy-lidded. John let out his breath, and attempted to calm himself, glad that he’d worn the looser fitting chino trousers today, rather than the snug fitting black ones that were almost able to show a man’s religion, in the right circumstances.

“Have you ever had a prostate exam, Sherlock?” John asked as he fetched some lubricating jelly from the cupboard. “No,” came the response. “I thought they were usually done on men who are… older… than me, but I’m sure whatever you think will be… good. What would you like me to do?”

John swallowed hard at the images this question brought up in his mind, then stepped forward, hooking one finger under the bottom edge of those tight trunks, and tugged. “These will have to come off,” he said quietly. Sherlock stood and quickly stripped off the trunks, giving John a good look at his cock for the first time. It was a beautiful sight, long and thick, with a neatly trimmed nest of dark hair at its base. John glanced over to check the window blinds were closed, and tried the door handle to make sure it was locked – it was standard procedure during this type of examination, to ensure the patient wasn’t embarrassed by anyone randomly walking in, but you couldn’t be too careful, he decided. Sure enough, the door was locked, a reflex action he didn’t even remember performing.

Just at that moment, the phone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver, impatient and annoyed with whoever it was interrupting. “Yes?!” he barked. “Oh, sorry to disturb you Doctor, but this morning’s surgery is over, we were going to lock up and go for lunch, then I remembered you still have Mr Holmes in there with you,” said Liz, reproachfully. “Would you like me to stay until you’re done, so I can let him out?” John forced himself to be polite. “No, Liz, thank you, that’s fine. Just leave the keys on the desk and I’ll let him out myself. I’ve brought my lunch with me, so it’s not like I wouldn’t be here anyway,” he replied. “Okay then Doctor, if you’re sure? We’re all out together, if you need anyone, you have my number. The phone’s switched over, so you have nothing to worry about for the next hour and a half!” John hung up, suddenly feeling extremely nervous. “Just the receptionist,” he said in reply to Sherlock’s quizzical look. “Everyone’s gone for lunch, so it’s just the two of us in the building, I’m afraid!” Sherlock smiled, a lazy, half-lidded smile, full of promise. “Good,” he replied. “I do so hate to be interrupted… now, what did you say you wanted me to do?”

John strode over to the young man, grabbed his hips with his gloved hands and spun him around, causing Sherlock to fall slightly off balance with both hands pressed onto the couch. Pressing his hands to the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, John pressed his legs further back and wider apart. “You may find it more comfortable to fold your arms on the couch and rest your head on them; this position can cause backache if held for too long, neither bent not upright.” Sherlock complied immediately, responding to the unspoken authority in John’s manner. As his back arched into its almost horizontal position, his buttocks spread and his pink hole was revealed. John fought the urge to drop to his knees and bury his tongue inside, and won, but barely. “I haven’t crossed the line yet,” he told himself, “everything up until now has been medically necessary… And I’m just being thorough, it’s not as though there are never any men under 50 diagnosed with prostate cancer… As luscious as that arse is, I can’t think of any reason on earth why shoving my tongue inside would be seen as a medical procedure!”

As if he were reading John’s mind, Sherlock rolled his hips from side to side, waving that inviting hole right under John’s nose. Immediately, John grabbed the lube, smearing a generous dollop onto his fingers. “Sherlock, you said you’ve never had a prostate exam before, so I’m going to go slowly, it can feel a little invasive.” He gently rubbed his fingers around the ring of tight muscle, applying a little pressure then backing off. Sherlock’s hips began to pulse with movement, following John’s, as though he were trying to back himself onto John’s finger. “Okay, deep breath,” John said, and slowly slid his middle finger into Sherlock’s tight, hot hole. He was unsurprised to hear a moan come from where Sherlock had buried his head in his arms, and withdrew his finger a little, only to slide it back in again, deeper. John watched his finger, sliding in and out of Sherlock’s hole, loosening it, preparing it… He adjusted his raging hard cock in his trousers, grateful once again for the looseness of the fit. He slid the finger all the way out of Sherlock, who popped his head up from the couch, to see what the problem was. It was only now that John noticed he was only resting on one arm, the other hand buried between his thighs; the rhythmic movement of his balls swinging told John exactly what he was doing. John pressed his middle and index fingers tightly together, and pushed them slowly into Sherlock’s willing hole; Sherlock pushed back to meet him, and the moans got louder. John was glad there was nobody else in the building, someone would surely have come to check out the indecent noises coming from his room. John’s fingers pistoned in and out of Sherlock, the rest of his hand slapping Sherlock’s buttocks, as he moaned and panted beneath John. When he judged that Sherlock was almost at the point of orgasm, John pulled his fingers out, leaving Sherlock momentarily gaping, and said, “That all seems fine, Sherlock, if you could turn around please?” A look of confusion and anguish crossed Sherlock’s face, as he struggled to work out what was going on. He stood upright and turned around, and John pushed him backwards so he was leaning against the couch. John took his heavy testicles in one still lubricated hand, and his cock in the other. Understanding dawned on Sherlock, and he looked John in the eye and said one single word – “Please…”

John dropped to his knees, sliding his hand under Sherlock’s testicles to his arse, and slid his fingers back inside. At the same time, he began to slide the soft skin on Sherlock’s hard erection, and slid his lips over the shiny purple head. Sherlock threw his head back, hissing once more. “Fuck!” he breathed, “I won’t be long!” John’s response was to roll his tongue around the sensitive bumps on the underside of the glans, and suck him down deeply, right to the back of his throat. Sherlock’s orgasm hit, almost crushing John’s fingers, buried deep in his arse, and John gobbled the salty ropes down greedily. For a few moments, both men tried to catch their breath.

“Well I’ve never had an examination like that, Doctor, I like your technique! I’m interested in medicine, human anatomy.. Perhaps you’d consider taking me on as a private pupil, so I could learn it myself? You wouldn’t mind being a volunteer patient for me, would you?”

John smiled. “Oh, I think I could manage that,” he replied, “after all, it’s our duty to teach new students coming through, and experiencing the procedure yourself makes you more empathetic to the patient. I think there are a few other, less conventional techniques for prostate exam I could show you too…”


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the same meeting, but from Sherlock's point of view...

SHERLOCK

Sherlock lay back on the sofa in a pair of loose pyjama trousers, a t-shirt, and his second best dressing gown, and glared at the letter Mrs Hudson had brought up with his cup of tea that morning. Bloody Lestrade! Sherlock huffed, irritated that his morning was about to be ruined; why should he need to have a medical to carry on doing Lestrade’s job for him? Then again… Sherlock had noticed the new doctor down at the local surgery, and deduced that he was a lot more flexible about his sexuality than he realised. Flinging himself off of the sofa, Sherlock stalked off to the bathroom to run a bath, and head out to see if he could manipulate Dr Watson into seeing him. Sherlock had studied his comings and goings on his regular visits to be patched up after numerous run-ins with London’s criminal classes, and knew that today would be a good day to visit the surgery.

Sherlock slipped the ends of the scarf around his neck through the loop and pulled it snug, then swung his coat round himself, grabbing his keys and wallet – he didn’t like to spend his own money if he could help it, but if Mycroft wasn’t around, it couldn’t be avoided. He stepped out of 221b Baker Street and hailed a passing taxi, giving the driver the name of the local surgery. He had timed his arrival perfectly, there were a few patients still waiting to be seen, but the majority of the waiting room was empty; previous experience told him that Dr Watson was likely to be finished with his list.

Sherlock pulled open the door and stepped up to the desk, the resident dragon was in place behind the appointment book. “Fetch me a doctor to sign this”, Sherlock said disdainfully to her, slapping the medical form down on the counter in front of her. “I beg your pardon?!” she spluttered. “I need this signed, a doctor has to sign it, so fetch me a doctor! Are you an idiot?” Sherlock watched as the woman started to fume. “I’m sorry, “Sir”,” she sneered, “we don’t have any doctors available, you’ll need to make an appointment next week.”

“But this is important! You must have someone halfway competent that can see me and sign a piece of paper!” Sherlock’s keen ears caught the sound of a door closing, and from the direction of the noise, he knew Dr Watson was about to come to the rescue. “I’m sorry Mr Holmes, you’ll need to book an appointment, like the rest of our patients have ALREADY DONE!” The receptionist glared at him, and Sherlock stepped away from the desk towards the waiting room, where three patients sat waiting for their turn to see the doctor.

“Any idiot can diagnose them,” he sneered. “Take the blonde in the corner.” Sherlock indicated the young woman sitting awkwardly, leaning to one side on the arm of her chair. “Her problem is obviously centred on her groin, judging by the way she’s leaning in her seat with nobody next to her to talk to, she’s clearly too uncomfortable to sit normally, and the fidgeting tells its own tale. Could be haemorrhoids, but the constant fiddling with her engagement ring and pained expression says STD, and not caught from her fiancé.” Sherlock’s voice was loud enough to carry through to the waiting room, and the young woman had caught every word; she shot out of the seat and rushed from the waiting room, blushing furiously and mumbling to the dragon that she would come back another time. Sherlock turned his attention to the spotty young man who had been watching both him and the young woman who had left, although he had turned away from her every time she glanced in his direction. It was obvious they knew each other from their behaviour, and the fact that he had started to blush as quickly as she had told Sherlock all he needed to know about the nature of their relationship. “As for him,” Sherlock continued, “from the way they were making a point of not looking at each other, he’s obviously the source of the problem.” The young man’s blush deepened and he hurried after his friend, glaring Sherlock as he went. Sherlock turned to the only other patient in the waiting room – an elderly gentleman with high blood pressure, coming in for his routine checks to enable his repeat prescription to be renewed – and was about to open his mouth when Dr John Watson stepped up to the desk and asked, “Is there a problem?”

Dr Watson was a short but muscular man, Sherlock had already deduced his military career from his posture and tan lines; he’d been back home for a while now, but the tan had been slow to fade. He was dressed in a smart pair of loose chinos, with a hideous jumper; Sherlock couldn’t help thinking that a smart shirt would have shown off the definition of his pecs to a much better advantage. Then again, the man was not yet ready to acknowledge his attraction to men, it made sense that he wouldn’t dress better, that way he would neither attract the men he wanted nor the women he didn’t.

“This… “gentleman”… needs to have a medical for his work, Dr Watson, and I’m just explaining to him that he needs to book an appointment,” replied the dragon, through gritted teeth. Sherlock waited to see if Dr Watson would react in the way he thought he should. “Are there any more patients waiting to be seen?” Dr Watson enquired. “Not any more,” the dragon muttered. “I have some time free, why don’t I see… Mr Holmes, was it? Make life easier for everyone,” the doctor smiled. “Well if you’re sure, Doctor?” The dragon turned back to the Sherlock and it seemed Dr Watson had upset her by taking Sherlock’s side; Sherlock didn’t know why, since it was obvious to anyone with any wits that Sherlock was in the right. “If you’d like to follow the Doctor…” she said, hanging on to civility by the tiniest thread.

Sherlock followed Dr Watson down the corridor, admiring the way his arse flexed with every step. They entered his office – neat, sparse, Sherlock didn’t like the emptiness of it, he felt it could do with a few more interesting books and if not a whole skeleton, then a skull would brighten up the place no end – and Sherlock took the empty chair next to the desk. The dragon lady entered again and dropped a form on the desk, Sherlock recognised it as the one he had brought with him. She left a cup of tea next to it – Sherlock was disgruntled to realise it was intended for the doctor, not him – and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“First things first, I need you to produce a urine sample.” Dr Watson handed Sherlock a specimen pot, and continued, “You’ll find a toilet two doors down on the right.” Sherlock took himself down to the toilet, and dutifully produced his sample, wondering as he did so whether Dr Watson was reading his medical history, and if so, what he was making of it. Sherlock finished, zipped up his trousers and returned to the doctor’s room. “I don’t know why you’re going to all this trouble, there is nothing wrong with me, just sign the form so I can leave,” he said, calculating that the doctor would be one of those stubborn types that are determined to do everything by the book, he had that ‘boy scout’ kind of look about him. Sure enough, Dr Watson gave him an incredulous look, and said “Mr Holmes, where did you get your medical degree?”

“I don’t have a medical degree, and it’s Sherlock, Mr Holmes is my brother,” Sherlock scoffed. It was funny how a particular turn of phrase could evoke the strangest of memories, he made it a point never to be referred to by anyone as ‘Mr Holmes’. Mycroft had his uses, but wasn’t somebody Sherlock chose to spend time with if he could help it, nor with anyone who felt Mycroft was someone that THEY wanted to spend time with. “Then if it’s all the same to you, Sherlock, I’ll use MY medical degree to continue your medical examination. Could you remove your coat, scarf, jacket and shoes, please? And just pop on the scales when you have, I need to record your height and weight,” the doctor replied.

Sherlock knew this was likely to result in a telling off, he didn’t eat on any kind of regular schedule as it interfered with the work. The body was just transport, after all, providing it kept going while he was doing Lestrade’s job, it didn’t matter what it looked like. Reluctantly he began to remove his jacket, knowing this was an argument he should concede.

Dr Watson worked quickly, never asking a question unless the answer was not available to him via Sherlock’s records; Sherlock appreciated his efficiency. Before long, it was time for the physical examination to begin. “Take a seat on the couch there, Sherlock, if you would.” Dr Watson turned to grab a pair of latex gloves, and Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, knowing the assumption he would draw. It would be a matter of another couple of indrawn breaths in the right places to ensure that Dr Watson revised his initial assumption and started thinking along the same lines as Sherlock, so when he heard Dr Watson snap on the gloves, he hissed inwards again.

“I’m just going to take your blood pressure, I’ll need you to slip your shirt off so I can put this cuff around your bicep, if that’s okay?” Dr Watson said, in a voice designed to calm and reassure patients who were scared of the doctor. Sherlock obliged, unbuttoning his shirt and slowly revealing his perfect skin. His chest was surprisingly muscular, but it was a lean strength; no posing in front of the mirrors at the gym for Sherlock, rather the everyday exercise of chasing criminals, climbing buildings and whipping corpses. Sherlock stayed perfectly still, closed his eyes and began to enjoy the sensations of Dr Watson gently taking his arm and wrapping the blood pressure cuff around it, inflating it, and measuring his blood pressure. As he began to move through the examination, Sherlock deliberately reacted to every touch of the gloved hand, but it didn’t take long for his body to catch on to what his mind was trying to achieve, and the reactions became involuntary – not because of the latex, as he knew Dr Watson was beginning to suspect, but because the hand inside was Dr Watson’s.

“Sherlock, are you okay with the medical procedures I’m doing? I’ve noticed you seem a little… anxious… when I touch you?” Dr Watson’s voice was full of that caring concern, but despite that, the tone of his voice shot straight to Sherlock’s cock. He took a moment to compose himself, then answered “I’m fine, Doctor, please… Carry on.” Dr Watson moved round in front of Sherlock to check the glands in his neck, and Sherlock made a point of spreading his legs, rather than tucking them to one side, in order to increase the intimacy of the situation. He leaned back on his hands, calculating how far back he could go before it just became weird, instead of a little unusual. He observed the slight rise in colour on Dr Watson’s cheeks, the slight hitch in his breathing. He knew it was a fine line he was walking, and the excitement only served to arouse him even more.

He knew he had sent Dr Watson’s mind in the right direction when he said “Mr Ho- Sherlock, I need to test your reflexes, it’ll be easier to do that if you slip your trousers off.” Sherlock stood without any objections, and unzipped his trousers, revealing a pair of tight fitting black trunk-style briefs, which did nothing to conceal the hard erection inside them. “Where do you want me?” he asked, the choice of words deliberate. Dr Watson turned quickly, clearing his throat, saying “Just where you were before is fine.” Sherlock sat back on the couch, crossing his legs, ankle to knee to frame his groin. Dr Watson took a firm grip on his ankle, and slowly pulled his leg, sliding it across his knee until his legs were crossed knee to knee, saying, “No, I mean like this.” The sight of Dr Watson looking him straight in the eye and taking command of the situation sent another bolt of desire straight to Sherlock’s cock, and he hissed another breath in. Dr Watson conducted the reflex text, taking hold of Sherlock’s legs to swap them over and conduct the test on the other knee. Sherlock watched as Dr Watson realised he had finished the examination; this was where things could go one of two ways. Either Dr Watson would go back to supressing his attraction and the examination would finish here, or he would take his courage in his hands and make a move.

“Well Sherlock,” he said, “We’ve finished the medical, but I wonder if we shouldn’t just do a couple of extra tests while I have you here, to save you needing to come back another time?”

“What did you have in mind, Doctor?” Sherlock replied, and he could hear the effect the excitement and anticipation was having on his voice.

“Well I think we should consider a prostate check,” Dr Watson replied hurriedly, “Obviously if there are any issues, the sooner we catch them the better. And I’d like to check for hernias too, you seem to have quite a physical job, judging by what the Met wanted me to check!” Sherlock took a few moments before he replied, watching as Dr Watson held his breath. “Well if you think that’s best, Doctor”, he said, allowing his voice to deepen and his blue eyes to become heavy-lidded. The effect was immediate; Dr Watson let out an explosive breath, and Sherlock noticed as he subtly adjusted his chinos when he turned to fetch the lubricating jelly from a cupboard.

“Have you ever had a prostate exam, Sherlock?” Dr Watson asked. “No,” he replied, “I thought they were usually done on men who are… older… than me, but I’m sure whatever you think will be… good. What would you like me to do?” This much was true; he had never seen a doctor for the purposes of a prostate exam, but that did not mean his arse was virgin. On the contrary, Sherlock knew the pleasures that could be had from anal stimulation, and was looking forward to sharing them with Dr Watson.

Dr Watson stepped forward, swallowing hard, and tucked his finger under the bottom edge of Sherlock’s trunks. “These will have to come off,” he said quietly, his voice commanding nevertheless. It felt like a red-hot electric shock, straight to Sherlock’s cock. He was pleased at how bold the doctor had decided to be, but was not surprised; he hadn’t gotten to be a Captain in the army without a certain amount of boldness. Sherlock stood immediately, and stripped the trunks off. He was hard, and that was an impressive sight, Sherlock knew.

The phone rang at the moment; John stepped over and picked up the receiver. As Sherlock listened to the one-sided conversation, he deduced who was calling and why, but affected curiosity. “Just the receptionist. Everyone’s gone for lunch, so it’s just the two of us in the building, I’m afraid!”

Sherlock smiled lazily. “Good,” he replied. “I do so hate to be interrupted… now, what did you say you wanted me to do?” As he had hoped, Dr Watson took charge, grabbed him around the hips and spun him around. Sherlock allowed himself to fall slightly, catching himself with his hands pressed onto the couch. He felt Dr Watson’s hands grip his thighs, pulling his legs wider apart and further back.

“You may find it more comfortable to fold your arms on the couch and rest your head on them; this position can cause backache if held for too long, neither bent not upright.” Sherlock bent at the waist, crossing his arms on the surface of the couch, and resting his head on them. The position tipped his hips so that his back arched and his buttocks spread; Sherlock could feel the cool air on his hole and knew he was revealed entirely to the doctor’s gaze. He rolled his hips, as though trying to get a more comfortable position, and as he had hoped, Dr Watson grabbed the lube and squeezed a generous portion onto his fingers.

“Sherlock, you said you’ve never had a prostate exam before, so I’m going to go slowly, it can feel a little invasive.” Sherlock closed his eyes to enjoy the stimulation without distraction, and found his hips moving involuntarily, following the push and release of the doctor’s finger as he pressed Sherlock's anus. “Okay, deep breath,” the doctor said, and slowly slid his finger through the ring of tight muscle. The feeling was exquisite. Sherlock had, on occasion, been with partners who were too excited to prepare him properly, and while pain could be pleasurable under certain circumstances, this was better. He let out a low moan, and felt the finger retreat, then push forward, deeper. Sherlock slipped his hand between his thighs, taking his hard shaft in a firm grip, and starting to stroke in the same rhythm as the doctor’s finger moving in and out of him. Some distant part of him was aware of the doctor adjusting his trousers; Sherlock knew he was enjoying the examination as much as his patient, but for Sherlock the only things registering on a conscious level were the pleasurable sensations centred around his arse and his cock.

Focused as much as he was on those sensations, it was a shock to feel the finger retreat entirely, leaving him empty, and he turned quickly to see what was going on. As he did so, he felt the finger return, and another, stretching his tight hole, increasing the pleasure. Another moan was forced from him, louder this time – Sherlock had always been very vocal – and he increased the pace of his stroke to match that of the fingers now pumping in and out of his arse. He felt the tight coil beginning in his belly, he knew it was a matter of moments before he would come all over the doctor’s clean paper towel covered couch, and he didn’t care. At precisely that moment, Dr Watson pulled out both of his fingers, leaving Sherlock empty, confused.

“That all seems fine, Sherlock, if you could turn around please?” Sherlock struggled to understand, why had he stopped? Was his conscience kicking in now? He stood upright and turned around, and was immediately pushed back by Dr Watson’s strong hands on his hips. Off balance for real this time, he fell back against the couch, feeling its edge against the top of his buttocks. Dr Watson looked him straight in the eyes, and with his still lubricated hand, took hold of Sherlock’s testicles, giving them a slight squeeze, and with the other hand took a firm grip on the hard shaft where Sherlock’s hand had been moments before. Sherlock responded to the unspoken question with a single word – “Please…”

He was amazed when Dr Watson dropped to his knees in front of him, taking the head of Sherlock’s rock hard cock into his mouth and beginning to slide the soft skin over the shaft once more. His other hand dropped beneath Sherlock’s testicles, slid over his perineum to his arse, and resumed pumping in the same rhythm as before.

Sherlock felt it was only fair to warn him, “Fuck!” he breathed, “I won’t be long!” As though urging him to his release, Dr Watson rolled his tongue around the sensitive bumps on the underside of the glans, and sucked hard, taking Sherlock’s cock deep into his mouth, until Sherlock could feel the head of his cock nudging the back of the doctor’s throat. The boiling coil in his belly spilled over, and he felt the spasm from the root of his cock all the way to the end, felt his come pouring out of him for what seemed like hours, felt the doctor swallowing it all down. At the same time, Sherlock felt the muscles in his arse spasm around Dr Watson’s clever fingers, which served only to extend his orgasm. Finally he finished, and tried to catch his breath, as the doctor sat back on his heels and tried to catch his own.

In a calculated move, Sherlock decided to appeal to the doctor’s desire to help others. “Well I’ve never had an examination like that, Doctor, I like your technique! I’m interested in medicine, human anatomy.. Perhaps you’d consider taking me on as a private pupil, so I could learn it myself? You wouldn’t mind being a volunteer patient for me, would you?”

He had judged it well, he knew, as Dr Watson replied “Oh, I think I could manage that,” he replied, “after all, it’s our duty to teach new students coming through, and experiencing the procedure yourself makes you more empathetic to the patient. I think there are a few other, less conventional techniques for prostate exam I could show you too…”


End file.
